


for the first time, I'm thinkin' past tomorrow

by Sanna_Black_Slytherin



Series: The Other 51 [14]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Asexual James Madison, Banter, Christmas, Eliza angst, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Hamilton persists in his fight with Trump, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, I'm Sorry, M/M, Politics, President Hamilton, Secret Santa, Social Anxiety, Twitter, the Hamilsquad sucks at the 'secret' part of Secret Santa, though it doesn't come up as much here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-11
Updated: 2016-12-11
Packaged: 2018-09-07 23:58:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8821405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sanna_Black_Slytherin/pseuds/Sanna_Black_Slytherin
Summary: In which there are Christmas preparations, Lin makes an appearance, as does the cup-and-saucer gift, Thomas Jefferson manages to piss off the Washingtons, meetings turn awkward, and Eliza is Not Okay. Also, coffee mixed with vodka because that's what Hamilton drinks.





	

**Author's Note:**

> _Sleepy Hollow_ is as inspiring as it is historically inaccurate. Like so freaking much that it hurts. And yes, I know, supernatural stuff, and yes, I know, Crane is the typical Jeffersonian, but _still_.
> 
> Also, I have a headcanon that ghost!Laurens was watching from the afterlife as Hamilton screwed up thing after thing after thing, and Laurens just facepalmed himself every time, and that's how he knows what was going on.

Christmas was just around the corner, which meant one thing in particular for Alexander's close group of friends: the (questionably) beloved and time-honoured tradition of Secret Santa.

As usual, Alexander was its primary proponent.

 _Chat: Hamilsquad2k15_  
_POTUS_ : Meeting in the West Wing at 7 pm, barring any emergencies.  
_POTUS_ : Need to talk abt Secret Santa.  
_POTUS_ : Bring something to drink bc I seem to have run out of beverages.

* * *

When seven rolled around, there did not seem to be any international – or, indeed, even national, which made Alexander more than slightly suspicious – emergencies, so the president, the vice president, and the Secretaries of State, Treasury, and War gathered in the president's private suite.

Schmidt and Drawwood brought at least three bottles of various soda drinks. Lafayette bought a few beers for general consumption. James Morrow brought wine.

 _Of course_ James brought wine. (In James' defense, it was excellent wine.)

Jemmy was the kind of person who would attend every wine picking he was invited to – and, as VP, he was invited to almost all of them. Alexander wouldn't be surprised if James had his own wine cellar, which had to be the most secure wine cellar in the country.

“It's ridiculous that you Virginians call it 'Secret Santa'. In Pennsylvania, we call it 'the white elephant',” Drawwood grumbled, to which Alexander objected that he wasn't a Virginian and he didn't appreciate such grave insults thrown his way.

“In case you haven't forgotten, we aren't exactly in Pennsylvania,” James retorted.

“And whose fault is that?” Drawwood asked pointedly.

“Technically, it was the fault of the Virginia and Pennsylvania delegations from the House,” Alexander pointed out.

“Yeah, right,” Drawwood snorted. “It wasn't like you, Jemmy over there, and our dear President Jefferson,” Alexander scoffed at that, “went out for dinner and made a back-handed deal to trade banks for our capitol.”

“Again, it was technically a trade of assumption of state debt, rather than the national bank, for the nation's capitol,” Alexander felt compelled to correct again. “I had already founded the Bank of New York, which then became the national bank during my tenure as Treasury Secretary.”

“Still your fault that we aren't in Philadelphia.”

“Why would we want to go to Philly?” Alexander scowled. “The whole town was one big mafia town, owned by Benjamin Franklin.”

"Ben Franklin was good," Lafayette objected. "What do you have against him?” a look of realization then graced his face. “Ah, _je vois_. You knew that he was as smart as you, possibly smarter. You, Alexander Hamilton, were _jealous_ ,” he grinned.

Alexander glowered. “I do not get _jealous_ ,” he objected.

Lafayette rolled his eyes. “It is unbecoming to lie to oneself, Alex,” he said affectionately, stealing a kiss from Alexander.

Schmidt coughed, an amused grin on his face. “As much as I love this debate, I believe that we have lots to draw.”

Alexander glared at Lafayette. “This isn't over, Gilbert du Motier. But our baron has a point.”

They made quick work of making little notes with their names on it, throwing them into a hat that Drawwood snitched from Schmidt when he wasn't looking. The Secretary of War squeaked in a most undignified fashion, glaring at Drawwood as she stuck out her tongue. “Very mature,” he said petulantly.

“Don't make a fuss,” James interjected. “We are all adults here.”

“Debatable,” Schmidt scoffed, throwing pointed looks at Drawwood.

James snorted disbelievingly but ignored them, offering the hat with the lots to Alexander. “Mr President,” he said meaningfully.

Alexander drew a lot, read it, then threw it back. “I got myself,” he offered as an explanation. He drew another lot. He cast a smug look at his boyfriend. “I got you, you hedonist.”

“I am not a hedonist,” Lafayette countered, affronted.

Alexander smirked. “Your bathroom says otherwise.” he contended, alluding to the marble-tiled monstrosity of a room, filled from corner to corner with every luxury of personal grooming and comfort that the modern world could manufacture – and then some that he procured through obscure means.

James grinned. “Actually, Alexander does have a point,” he admitted. “I have seen your bathroom, and let's just say that, if I had to describe Queen Elizabeth's bathroom, I would just describe yours and would not be very far off,” he then reached into the hat and blindly picked a paper. He nodded his acceptance as he read the name. “Drawwood.”

The person in question caught his eye. “One restriction: no bath bombs. I still have like a hundred of them from last Christmas, courtesy of one marquis,” she glanced at Lafayette, who did not even fake innocence.

“What?” Lafayette said, eyebrows raised high. “Don't honestly tell me that you didn't enjoy the bath bombs.”

Drawwood scoffed lightly. “I did, Motier, it's just that– you gave me _five hundred_ bath bombs,” she emphasized.

Lafayette grinned. “And all of them had a unique smell.”

“Which is impressive but _you are missing the point,_ ” Drawwood groaned.

James wordlessly offered the hat to Lafayette, silencing any further argument. He has had a lot of practice with Alexander and Thomas – Drawwood and Lafayette were child's play compared to the notorious two first secretaries.

Lafayette picked a name. He turned his head to study Schmidt. “This will be fun,” his grin grew as Schmidt groaned.

Drawwood nicked the hat from James' hands and grabbed a lot. She unfurled it. “Mr President, it seems that I will be your Secret Santa.”

Schmidt raised an eyebrow. “I know that it is _trop tard_ to fix it, but does it not ruin the purpose of a _secret_ santa if you tell the person you get?”

Alexander shrugged. “I suppose, but it builds up so much more excitement if you know who is going to be buying for you. Also, that leaves you with Jemmy dearest.”

“Oh thank God,” James let his head fall back in relief. “It will be a normal Christmas for once,” When he opened his eyes again, he was unsettled by four eyes staring at him, the same mischievous smile adorning all four faces. He groaned. “I just jinxed it, didn't I?”

* * *

_Donald J. Trump_ @realDonaldTrump  
President Hampton will go down as perhaps the worst president in the history of our country!

 _Donald J. Trump_ @realDonaldTrump  
No surprise that Russia celebrated Hampton's win. They love a weak American that they can rip off.

 _Alexander Hampton_ @AdotHam  
@realDonaldTrump Question: Do you ever proof-read what you write, or do you just type every bullshit thought that pops into your head?

 _Alexander Hampton_ @AdotHam  
@realDonaldTrump Because I find it hard to believe that any intelligent being would post any of what you do.

 _Alexander Hampton_ @AdotHam  
@realDonaldTrump Besides, didn't you lose your phone privileges after last week's scandal?  
_21 304 reblogs_

 _Peggy Scott_ @margarita32  
@AdotHam At the risk of sounding obnoxious, you're acting just as infantile as he is. Be careful not to lose YOUR phone privileges. Sir.  
_49 938 reblogs_

* * *

They had just finished their evening show, and the cast was slowly heading to their respective dressing rooms. Lin and Jon had opted to stay in costume (sans the cape, in Jon's case, because there were limits to his sacrifices in the name of art) and take selfies with their daily set of backstage celebrities. Lin grinned as one celebrity in particular persisted in stalking Jon, who looked oddly flattered by it.

One of the last ones was one Catherine Lemmington, a New York activist for equal rights for all races. She fiddled with something in her hands as Lin approached her. It looked to be a carefully-wrapped package. She looked up when she heard his footsteps and gave him a nervous smile. “Hello, I'm Catherine Lemmington,” she offered her hand, which Lin shook with a smile.

“Lin-Manuel Miranda, but you already know that,” he said in his Hamilton accent. It was hard to drop the accent – or, rather, it wasn't so much that it was hard to drop the accent, as it was that it would be hard to get it back tomorrow if he didn't go through exact vocal exercises which he rarely had time for before it was Celebrity Selfie Time. “Want to take a selfie?” Lin suggested.

Catherine smiled. “I would love to, yes, but that's actually not why I'm here,” she lifted the package and put it in Lin's hands. “I want to give this to you.”

Lin blinked. He surveyed the gift meticulously. “What is it?” he asked.

“It is a cup and a saucer owned by Alexander Hamilton,” Catherine explained. “It has been in my family for centuries, but I have never used it. I figured that you might appreciate it more.”

“Are you saying that you're one of…” Lin could not finish the sentence, scarcely believing that it was actually happening. For real. Right now. To him.

“Hamilton's descendants?” Catherine grinned. “Yes.”

“Awesome. Wow,” Lin breathed.

Jon evidently heard that, or else he had somehow gotten rid of his stalker, because he materialized at Lin's shoulder. “What's that?” he asked.

“That,” Lin felt his grin grow, “is a gift from one of Hamilton's descendants, the Lady Catherine Lemmington. I am forever in her debt.”

“Now, I will have none of that,” Catherine waved it away. “First off, I am no lady. Second, you will find a better use for it than littering the depths of my cupboard.”

Jon took the package from Lin as the actor found his phone for selfie purposes. “We most certainly will.”

* * *

As soon as Catherine Lemmington left, Lin grabbed the nearest pair of scissors and plopped down right where he was standing. He tore into the gift with child-like wonder but with as much care as if he had been ordered to put together a mechanical clock.

The cup and saucer were white with gold decorations. They were, in Lin's eyes, the most gorgeous gift he had received in a long time. He was turning the cup over in his hands, afraid that it would break at the slightest touch but too curious to put it away.

Jon grinned. “Guys!” he yelled, getting the attention of Philippa, Renée, and Chris, who were the closest to the duo. “You've got to see this!”

“What's this?” Chris asked, approaching them.

“Lin just got a gift from a Hamilton descendant,” Jon proclaimed.

“Really?” Philippa frowned. “Can I see it?”

Jon furrowed his eyes, surveying Lin who was still staring at the cup as though it held an answer to every question in the universe. “Well, you can see the saucer, but I doubt that Lin is going to relinquish the cup anytime soon.”

Philippa grinned and bent down to grab the saucer, but as soon as she lifted the plate, her entire body tensed up and her eyes glazed over. Her grip on the saucer loosened and it fell to the floor.

Fortunately, Renée caught it before it could shatter into a thousand pieces. She put it back down on the floor and cupped both hands around Philippa's head to look into her eyes. “Hey, Philippa, are you okay?”

At those words, Philippa seemed to come back to herself, as if shaking herself out a daze. “Yes, I– my health is adequate,” there was something ineffable in her voice, though Jon could not, for his life, say what it was. “I will be fine. I am sorry, if you will excuse me,” she turned on her heels and hurried away from them.

Jon felt his stomach turn to lead with anxiety. He exchanged glances with Renée and Chris, who were equally perplexed. “Should one of us go after her?” Chris asked.

Renée shook her head. “Not right now. She needs time alone to think about whatever it was that upset her.”

Jon picked up the saucer and studied it. What about a mere saucer could possibly have upset Philippa? He resolved to find out.

* * *

“Thomas, how are you doing?” John threw the question out casually during one of their pizza nights. They had decided to order in, neither feeling up to the task of making a dinner (and John not being able to stand another night of mac and cheese, no matter how well Thomas made it). Thomas ordered with his usual extravagance – paprika, onions, peanuts, banana, shrimps, garlic sauce, curry, and mango chutney. Just looking at that barbaric alloy of dressings made John nauseous. He stuck with a simple Vesuvio with ham.

Thomas quirked an eyebrow at the non-sequitur. “I'm fine,” he answered habitually.

John rolled his eyes. “Sure you are,” he said laconically. “Next time, try to sound a little more convincing.”

Thomas steeled himself. “I really _am_ fine,” he said defiantly, making a point of looking John in the eye.

John surveyed his boyfriend for a while longer, then, seeming to be satisfied with what he found in Thomas' gaze, finally said, “I found others like us.”

Thomas froze. When John put a reassuring hand on his shoulders, Thomas' muscles tensed up. “Who?” The single word spoke volumes.

John smiled. “Don't worry, it's not anyone who would hold anything against you. I think,” he added after a moment of thought.

“Who?” Thomas repeated.

John leaned back and ticked off the fingers on his right hand as he spoke. “General and the Lady Washington, as well as Angelica and Eliza Schuyler. Ironically, Eliza plays herself in the Broadway play. You know the one,” he prodded.

Thomas nodded. “ _'Hamilton'_ ,” he supplemented with a condescending sneer. It sometimes amazed John just how much emotion his boyfriend could convey with a single word or an expression.

John playfully smacked Thomas on the shoulder. “Now, don't mock Alexander. You know he was very dear to me.”

Thomas sighed exaggeratedly. “Yes, we have been over this, _sweetie_ ,” he said sarcastically. “But back to the subject at hand: the Washingtons hardly harbour any remaining love for me – I recall Martha Washington once saying that the moment I visited her to offer my condolences for Washington's death to be the second worst day of her life, only overshadowed by the day when her second husband died. As for Washington… after I opposed Hamilton's plan and subsequently resigned from his cabinet, Washington never spoke a word to me again.”

“So, not big fans of yours,” John surmised.

“You can say that again.”

“The General says that he also found Abigail Adams – well, Abigail Hobbs now,” John mentioned.

Thomas perked up. “I liked her,” he said. “She was fierce, intelligent, and wasn't afraid to stand up for her opinions.”

“Methinks you are describing Angelica Schuyler.”

“They were quite similar in character,” Thomas admitted. “I miss them.”

“So?” John inquired. “Do you want to meet them? They are planning to meet sometime next month, so you have a bit of time to decide.”

Thomas sighed. “At the risk of being chewed out by the Washingtons, yes,” he said finally, trying to hide a notion of insecurity behind a façade of resignation.

John saw right through it. “Don't worry,” he smiled, “I will protect you. As, I believe, will Angelica and Eliza.”

Thomas huffed. “Eliza Hamilton?” he said incredulously. “I was her husband's worst enemy, the very epitome of everything Hamilton stood against; I was one of the reasons her husband wrote that damned Pamphlet which ruined her life.”

John shook his head. “No,” he replied, “don't blame yourself for Alexander's mistakes. It was he and he alone who chose to reveal the details of his illicit engagement with Reynolds.”

Thomas blinked. “That's surprisingly comforting, but I must admit that I am a little taken aback at how you know these things.”

John shrugged. “You'd be surprised at how much you can learn from the afterlife. I mean,” he waved his hands aimlessly, “Alexander's life was, in modern terms, a train wreck right from the beginning.”

“Really?” Thomas tilted his head. “I know he was a West Indian immigrant of illegitimate birth, and that there were rumours as to him and Washington,” at that, John pretended to gag, which Thomas ignored, “but I don't really know anything beyond that.”

John hummed noncommittally. “You should read Ron Chernow's _Alexander Hamilton_ ,” he proposed. “I think you would get some insight into Alexander's thoughts. I know I did.”

Thomas did not deign the suggestion with a response. To his satisfaction though, John saw Thomas reading a thick book that could be nothing other than his literary recommendation. He stifled a grin.

* * *

“You were right,” Thomas dropped on the couch next to John.

John did not look up from his laptop, where he was reading an article about the natural development of Australian tortoises versus terrapins. “I am right about many things, Tommy; you will need to be more specific.”

Thomas scrunched up his nose. “Don't call me 'Tommy',” he hissed, ignoring John's laughter. “And I meant your recommendation. The book, I mean. It was… educative,” he said, throwing out parts of a sentence, growing nervous by the second.

“You finally understand Alexander's point of view,” John grinned.

Thomas grimaced. “That does not mean that I agree with it; I merely see how he could have arrived at the conclusions that he did.”

“I would be sorely disappointed had you altered your convictions based on a book,” John teased. "I swear, you are too stubborn for your own good."

“Now, I can't disappoint my boyfriend, can I?” Thomas grinned.

“You could also stop cooking mac and cheese all the time,” John grimaced.

Thomas pecked John's nose gently. “I cannot do that either.”

“In that case, let's have take-out tonight,” John proposed.

Thomas pouted. “Don't you like my mac and cheese?”

John groaned. “I do, Thomas, believe me, but not _every single day_ . _'Virtue itself turns vice, being misapplied',_ ” he quoted.

Thomas shrugged. “I don't see the problem.”

John smiled. “You wouldn't,” he returned Thomas' kiss from earlier. “I love you. Never change, Thomas Jenkins.”

* * *

_From: doppelgänger_  
President Hampton, this is Lin-Manuel Miranda. Remember how we talked about scheduling a performance of Hamilton in the White House?

 _To: doppelgänger_  
How could I forget? Your performance was BREATHTAKING. I lack the words to describe it, which does mean something coming from me.  
Also, I think my Treasury Secretary might murder me if she doesn't get to see it.  
Also also, call me Alexander. It's weird for a guy who plays me to call me Mr President.

 _From: doppelgänger_  
Technically, if you say that you lack the words, you don't ACTUALLY lack the words, so you just lied. One of the oxymorons of life.  
But seriously, could we schedule something?

 _To: doppelgänger_  
Yes, but not on the phone.  
Can you drop by 823 Kennedy Drive in Richmond? Say, this Friday?

 _From: doppelgänger_  
It would be my pleasure. Mind if I bring a friend?

 _To: doppelgänger_  
Laf would love to talk to Mr Diggs again.

* * *

In the end, they found seven reincarnates in total: Angelica, Eliza, the Washingtons, Abigail, Thomas, and John. Since most of them had very tight schedules, what with Angelica working for a law firm that competed with Thomas', while Washington kept pulling crazy hours in the ER, and Eliza invested all her free time in raising funds for a new school for disabled children. Martha and John could set their own work hours, which they usually did, both of them working whenever inspiration struck them. As a result of incompatible schedules, it took almost a month to decide a time and a place for a meeting. In the end, they settled for Richmond, it being a compromise between Angelica's New York City and Eliza's Raleigh in North Carolina, and also because both the Washingtons and Thomas and John lived there. Abigail mentioned that she lived in Baltimore, but Angelica promised that she would pick her up on the way to Virginia.

They planned to meet up in a Starbucks not far from the Washington residence, then drive to their house. They held brief introductions in the café – as expected, the Washingtons glared at Thomas as soon as he formally introduced himself, while Angelica threw him a flirtatious smile.

What really surprised Thomas, however, was Abigail Adams. She was so _young;_ she could not possibly be older than fifteen, sixteen at the most. It did not occur to Thomas previously that people of the same generation do not necessarily have to reincarnate together. They were lucky, he supposed, to have as many people in the same generation as they did.

For fifteen minutes or so, there was idle chit-chat as the group updated each other on the basics of their new lives.

“You know, it's not the country I thought it would be,” Eliza said at one point. “But it is the country that I have, and I am proud to be its citizen,” to which everyone nodded in agreement.

When there was a lull in conversation, Washington cleared his throat. The few people whispering fell silent. “Now, I am sure that you have all realized this by now,” Washington said in his commanding voice that he used to get people to listen, “but President Alexander Hampton is, or used to be, Alexander Hamilton. He doesn't seem to remember though, or at least that is the impression I got the last time I talked to him.”

“Why would you talk to the president?” Angelica challenged him.

Martha smiled. “Because he is our adopted son in this lifetime.”

Thomas' lips formed an O. “You are the doctor parents that the president keeps taking up as example of good adoption homes. _You fostered the President of the United States_ ,” he said disbelievingly.

Martha shook her head. “Correction: _George_ is a doctor. I am a writer,” she clarified. “And it is not like two of you haven't been presidents, like Abigail and I haven't served as first ladies, so you all know that presidents are not superheroes. They are just as human, just as prone to mistakes, as the rest of us.”

“This situation does feel a bit bizarre now, though,” George added musingly, “considering my relationship with Alexander before. It is bound to become awkward when he remembers.”

“Ha!” Thomas exclaimed gleefully. “I knew that he was fucking you!”

George reddened just as Eliza – and, by extension, Angelica – turned to glare at Thomas for his indiscretion. John smacked Thomas. “That was just insensitive,” he whispered furiously. “If nothing else, think about Eliza.”

Meanwhile, George had managed to form an appropriate response. “No, Jefferson, we were not, as you so eloquently put it, 'fucking', nor have I ever seen him in any light other than a familial one,” he said sternly. “If you recall, however, he had quite a few reservations concerning our relationship. Whenever I wanted to treat him like a son or a friend, rather than a subordinate, he distanced himself from me,” his voice sounded melancholy. “You see, then, how it may impede our currently healthy father-son relationship, were he to remember his past.”

Thomas bit his lip sheepishly and ducked his head as everyone focused their glares on him. He could feel his own face flush slightly at the unwelcome attention. He had never thrived on direct attention – he much preferred working in the shadows. It was both much more effective and would raise less questions and objections, and it suited his shy personality more. “I see how that might be awkward,” he finally responded. “I'm sorry for assuming.”

“Yeah, well, you know what they say about assuming,” Angelica scoffed. “Don't do it, or you will make an ass out of you and me – or, in this case, all of us.”

“Angelica!” Eliza hissed, scandalized. Turning to Thomas, she said, “On behalf of Alexander, apology accepted.”

An awkward silence fell around them after that. Thomas refused to make eye contact with anyone, even John, who was obviously trying to get his attention.

After finishing their respective coffees, they decided to move their meeting to the Washington residence as they had originally planned. They split into the groups they arrived in, and four cars soon drove off to Kennedy Drive.

* * *

As soon as George turned to their street, he and his wife noticed multiple black sedans being parked around their house, which, in simple terms, meant that Alexander was at home – and that the Secret Service actually knew about it, which wasn't something one should take for granted with Alexander Hampton.

Any other time, Martha and George would be delighted to have their son at home, but this particular situation was probably the only time when it was better for Alexander to be absent. Didn't he have an entire White House all for himself?

George stepped out of the car as soon as Martha parked it in the driveway. He approached a Secret Service agent. “Is my son in a meeting?” he demanded.

The Secret Service did not move. “I could not say, sir,” he replied flatly.

George rolled his eyes. “Splendid,” he said sarcastically. Waving the others to him, he announced, “Alexander is apparently at home. It might make this a little awkward, but I believe that we have enough rooms to be able to avoid whatever meeting he decided to host here.”

With that, he led the group to the front door, ignoring the Secret Service agents who were muttering to themselves on the radio, probably informing each other of the situation and asking headquarters to background checks on the group.

As Eliza was the first to enter the house, she was also the first to see what was going on in the living room.

The president was drinking some odd blend of coffee and vodka with Lin-Manuel Miranda and Daveed Diggs, all three quite a bit happier than the situation would normally warrant. The trio, probably on their way to intoxication, did not notice anyone entering the room.

Eliza heard additional footsteps in the kitchen and turned to see the marquis de Lafayette enter the living room with a bottle of some sort of wine and a glass. He stopped when he saw them. “Hello?” he offered tentatively, phrasing the greeting as a question. His eyes surveyed the rest of the group until they stopped on Washington and lit up in recognition. “Mr Westchester!” he exclaimed happily, abandoning the wine in favour of embracing the uncomfortable man.

The shout seemed to get the attention of the other three men, who now turned to face the group of newcomers. Eliza chanced to meet the president's eyes, and he held her gaze, as though looking for something. Although a different colour from her husband's, she could see that they had the same intelligence, the same hunger, the same ambition, the same shrewdness and congeniality. If Eliza had not been sure before, she could confirm now that this was Alexander Hamilton.

But there was no recognition in his eyes, no widened eyes as he realized who she was. Theoretically, she knew that he did not remember – the Washingtons told them, after all – but to face that as a reality was something entirely different.

Alexander's gorgeous eyes moved on to the rest of the group, stopping briefly on John like they did on her, almost like his soul remembered intuitively, when his mind did not, that they had been important to him in a past life. They narrowed at the sight of Jefferson, but he said nothing as he finally settled on watching Martha. “Hello, mum. Hello, dad,” he smiled.

Eliza felt someone else's eyes on her, and she looked around the room until she crossed eyes with Lin. He was staring at her with narrowed eyes. “Well, this is awkward,” he said eventually. “You said that you were sick and couldn't attend our Sunday lunch.”

Eliza raised an eyebrow. “You weren't going to be there anyway,” she said, indicating Alexander, “since you were going to party with the president. How did this happen, anyway?”

Daveed grinned. “It's secret for now,” he put a finger to his lips, exaggerating the gesture and accidentally knocking over an empty glass. “Oops,” he giggled.

Lin frowned. “Yeah, no, Daveed,” he decided. “You are drunk off your ass. You need to sleep.”

Alexander snorted. “Sleep is for wimps.”

“And for human beings,” Lafayette added. “We have been over this at least twenty times, Alexander. You _need_ to sleep and eat and do other things in order to be able to function as a proper human being.”

Alexander rolled his eyes. Eliza hasn't realized until then how much she missed his special quirks. She fought a smile but didn't quite succeed.

Then Lafayette all but collapsed on top of Alexander and kissed him affectionately on the lips. In that split second, Eliza's world shattered into a thousand pieces – exactly like the saucer would have, had Renée not caught it.

There was no one to catch her when she fell, and it was up to her to pick up the pieces and move on.

Lin stood up. “We will have to continue this discussion at a later time,” he said to Lafayette, who nodded. “For now, I have a Californian to force to sleep.”

“I understand completely,” Lafayette said, looking down at Alexander, who managed to snuggle into Lafayette and curl himself into a ball, sighing contentedly. “I would offer a bedroom, but it's not my house.”

George stepped forward. “Do feel free to use one of the guest bedrooms upstairs. Neither of you seem to be in a state to drive,” he said pointedly to Lin and Daveed. Lin thanked him with a sheepish smile, then dragged Daveed upstairs.

This left the group with nothing to stare at but the two politicians on the couch – though it was hard to believe that the two people currently curled up on each other were capable of taking care of themselves, let alone an entire country.

Lafayette eventually prodded Alexander in the side. “Alex, you need to go to sleep.”

“I am asleep,” came the response from underneath the Secretary of State.

“Not here, _imbécile_. In your bed.”

Alexander opened one eye blearily. “Carry me?” he begged.

Lafayette rolled his eyes. “Only because you weigh nothing, _mon amour_. Seriously, you need to eat more.”

This was how Eliza found herself witness to the President of the United States being swung over the shoulder of the State Secretary – who was evidently also the president's boyfriend – not to mention that said president used to be her husband in a past life.

For a moment, everything was silent after Lafayette left with Alexander. Jefferson broke it. “ _What was that._ ”

George sighed deeply. “I don't know anymore,” he admitted.

Martha smiled. “On the bright side, I managed to sneak a picture here and there while they weren't looking. Now, may I offer something to drink?” she asked, appropriating Lafayette's abandoned wine.

Eliza happened to meet eyes with John, and found that they were an exact mirror of hers. She found herself answering, “I need something strong for this.”

Echoes of agreement were heard around the room.

 

**Author's Note:**

> The annoying thing is that I have a summary ready for the scene where everyone finds out that everyone remembers, but still keeps getting in the way. Like, we haven't even met Hercules or Peggy (other than on Twitter).


End file.
